Death Knight

by Vaughn Heppner

  “We must be above theft,” she said.

  “During war it’s called foraging,” Gavin said.

  Swan shook her head. “We must pay for whatever we take. Otherwise the common folk and merchants will never rally to us.”

  Every so often, a proud manor house or castle arose in the distance. Bow-armed watchmen guarded crenellated roofs. Spike-collared mastiffs prowled the fenced yards.

  What had originally been a mountain path became over the days a broad rutted road. Shabby inns and well-tended abbeys made their appearances, while other rutted tracks merged into this main thoroughfare. Peasants with mule-drawn carts clattered their way to Banfrey. Pilgrims went afoot with a gray hood, cloak and staff and reverently spoke of touching the Shrine of Tulun. Some claimed they were bound for Albion, to there see the Holy Spire of Aelfwine. Sometimes royal sheriffs or a baron and his retainers in a mounted cavalcade greeted them, wishing Gavin luck at the tourney. Once they came upon a vast, eight-wheeled wagon. Each wheel was taller than Swan and had spear-thick, spokes. Sixteen oxen drew the monstrosity. The wagon had wooden walls, windows and a roof, a veritable barracks on wheels. It reminded Gavin of the yurts of the Far Southern Steppe. This wagon was shelter to a troupe of traveling actors and acrobats.

  They made an odd sight. Some were very tall and a few unbelievably fat. Jugglers practiced as they walked. Some of the acrobats did cartwheels, handstands and summersaults. They all argued, shouted and gestured wildly. A few made lordly pronouncements. Soon Gavin realized that they practiced their lines. He heard famous dialogues from the plays Eustace the Pirate and the beloved King Rhymer and the Princess.

  They needed to rest the horses anyway. So Gavin dismounted, stretching his legs as he walked, listening and thinking of better times as he stayed near the actors.

  “Are you a connoisseur of the theater, milord?”

  Gavin turned. A tall, sad-looking commoner trudged behind him. The man had a drooping nose, lank hair and surprisingly wore a cloak of many colors. No doubt, the man was an actor.

  Gavin pointed out a striking, red-haired girl who spoke to a lad leaning out an open wagon window. “She practices the part of Princess Melisende as she talks herself into poisoning the king.”

  The sad man nodded, quoting: “Let King Rhymer taste my fury and devour my hate. Let him choke on the weeds of vengeance! Only then will my brother’s ghost lay down to final rest.”

  “Maybe her brother’s ghost will find peace at last,” Gavin said, “but not the princess’ conscience.”

  The man’s long face brightened without smiling. It was a twisting of his eyebrows. “You are no mere brute in an iron cocoon, milord, but a true and chivalrous knight.”

  “I have been to a hundred tourneys and probably listened to a thousand plays,” Gavin said.

  “Are there indeed a thousand, milord?”

  “I have been told that each rendition is unique, making every play worthy of witnessing.”

  The tall man laughed sourly. “That is a lie, milord. An actor must have said it.”

  “No. As I recall it was a guild master of actors.”

  This time the thin man laughed sharply as he swept a cloth cap from his head and bowed. “I am Odo the Sword-eater, milord, and the guild master of this troupe.”

  “Then you have me at odds, my good fellow. If you are an actor then your words might be a lie. But if you are indeed the guild master then I have insulted you.”

  “Not at all, milord, I am an actor, a guild master and a great liar, and ‘tis impossible to insult me.”

  “Ah, now I know you lie, for all men may be insulted.”

  They continued to talk. Odo the Sword-eater owned the wagon and paid the wages of the actors and acrobats. He proved himself observant and keen-witted, and the troupe hurried to Banfrey for the King’s Tourney. Odo worried, however, that the town by now surely swarmed with his kind. Perhaps he should head north.

  “Not north,” Gavin said. “Grave trouble brews there. And on all account stay out of Forador Swamp.”

  With long fingers, Odo rubbed his chin as he gave Gavin a sidelong glance. “I’ve heard a strange rumor or two lately, and I have no intention of heading to Forador Swamp. But it’s a rare lord who warns a commoner. So I’d like to return the favor.”

  “You’re most kind.”

  “No, no, it’s simply good manners, as my mother would have said. From your questions I take it that you haven’t been to court during our gracious king’s reign.”

  “You’re observant,” Gavin said.

  “No matter, most of us haven’t. The thing to remember is that King Egbert is peculiar in his likes and dislikes. He isn’t keen on wit or logic, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ve heard it said that he’s mad.”

  Odo grimaced. “You lords have a way of speaking that wouldn’t be wise for a commoner like me. Mad? The king has his good days and bad. But then don’t we all. My suggestion, milord, if you happen to talk with him, is to appeal to his tastes.”

  “Which are?”

  Odo fluttered his fingers. “The king likes shiny things, feats of strength and the dramatic.” He grinned for the first time, and then once again become somber. “Don’t expect to win his affection for long. They say he listens to whoever speaks with him last.”

  “For a commoner you’re well-informed.”

  Odo nodded. “‘Tis the fate of a wagon-master, of a guild master of actors.”

  At that moment, an angry woman wearing a white kerchief and waving a cudgel hurried toward them.

  “Ah, if you’ll excuse me, milord, it seems Mantilla has finally discovered my morning’s indiscretion.” Odo thereupon strode behind the eight-wheeled wagon and hurried out of sight.

  The woman ran past, giving Gavin a scowl, yelling louder than ever as she raced after the long-limbed guild master.

  Gavin remounted, signaled Hugo and Swan and they resumed the fast pace.

  ***

  “At last,” said Swan. “I see it.”

  Gavin squinted into the distance.

  They plodded along the King’s Highway, a raised levee where peasants pushed handcarts full of carrots and cabbage, shuffling aside as nobles cantered by on their caparisoned palfreys. Pilgrims also used the highway and swarms of merchants and shepherds herding goats.

  Well-tilled fields rose up and down the rolling hills. Hedgerows marked boundaries. On the hilltops turned sail like vanes attached to windmills. Vineyards and orchards abounded. This was a prosperous land. The peasants wore clean woolens and had the round faces of the well fed.

  It was grim to think that in several months all this could become a land of horror. Snarls would replace smiles, greetings of hello with shrieks of terror. The wise man bought passage to Albion and escaped all that. A shiver ran down Gavin’s back at the thought of returning to Forador Castle, of voluntarily riding north to face darkspawn. What madness. How could Hugo even consider it?

  “There,” Swan told Hugo as she pointed south. “It’s that sparkle of light, the gleam of brightness.”

  Hugo squinted.

  “Do you see it, Gavin?” she asked.

  Around them pilgrims shouted in joy, pointing south.

  “The star of folly,” he said.

  Swan frowned. It pulled the scar on her cheek, the poorly healed scratch of the clawman. “Those are ill-chosen words, Sir Knight.”

  “Yes, I see it now,” Hugo said. He gave Gavin a crooked grin. “It reminds me of your silver sword when the sun catches it just so.”

  “The Shrine of Tulun,” said Swan, her eyes alight. “It is always the first sight of Banfrey.”

  Whenever she told them about Saint Tulun, she swept back her hair, smoothed her dress and fixed her lips in a beatific smile. Even now, the pilgrims shared the story among themselves.

  Gavin wondered how much of it was truth and how much silly fable. Still, darkspawn were real. Why not then the story of a saint whose life-blood had put out fires?

&nb
sp; The King’s Highway followed the Fangohr. Smacks and wherries rode low in the water, their oarsmen struggling to keep up with sail-billowing barges.

  In time, the spire glittered plainly. Then Banfrey’s inner town became visible. The wall was built on the hill where Saint Tulun had died and the wall seemed to glow. It was most extraordinary. Gavin had spoken earlier with stonemasons. They said the walls were built from local limestone quarries. The stone was soft yellow and sometimes a pinkish white. Sunlight lingered and flashed across such limestone and shadows merged. Gavin admitted that the masons had been right in saying it gave Banfrey a feeling of lightness and grace.

  The lower, outer town also had walls of stone. Circling those walls was a moat fed by the Banfrey River. The Banfrey merged into the Fangohr. Reeds grew along the moat, and as they neared, frogs croaked and the young boys yelled who chased them for supper.

  Traffic slowed and people thronged to enter the Mule Gate. Gaining entrance was a simple matter of a few copper marks. They rode across the bridge and through the gloomy archway of Braying Tower. On the other side began Banfrey’s outer town.

  It was a world of noise, tall wooden houses with peaked roofs and lanes little bigger than corridors. Pigeons wheeled overhead. Men and women shouted their wares. Town criers with clanging bells bellowed the latest news. Here sharp corners often led to collisions. Bread carts, fish carts and pastries slammed into a knight’s party or up against a throng of overdressed merchants. The sumptuary laws said that only nobility could wear fur-lined garments or fur cloaks. These rich burghers flouted the statute. Some even wore flashing rings of silver or gold. Swan noticed it with a frown, shaking her head. Pigs rooted everywhere, let out by their owners to forage during the day. Milk-goats bleated. Children raced past. Ill-clad sweepers with huge rakes stirred and moved the filth tossed out the shops and homes.

  The three of them worked toward the Banfrey Bridge. It crossed the river of that name and led into the upper, inner town. That part of town loomed before them, three buildings in particular standing above the walls. There was the Shrine of Tulun. High arches supported a white dome and a tall silvery spire. Doves seemed to be in perpetual flight above it, Swan said like a halo. To Gavin’s right the vast Temple of Banfrey stood along the river wall. The temple was huge, heavy and square, home to the High Priest of Erin. Squeezed against it, or nearly so, was the White Tower, the King’s Seat. From its turrets fluttered a hundred pennons.

  Gavin, Hugo and Swan moved through the streets, asking directions. There were no signs. Each lane was filled with guild workers of the same occupation. There was Butcher Street, Baker Lane and Tanner Alley. There was a separate street for silver workers, ironmongers and beer brewers.

  “Go through Cat Alley,” said a goldsmith, “turn right on Rope-Maker Lane and when you see the Church of Saint When the bridge will be to your left.”

  As they neared the bridge, the smell of fish, wool and beer became overpowering. Boatmen shouted and fishmongers and their wives yelled out their wares. At landing-stairs plied a host of watercraft. Big men hefted sacks of wheat and flax, while others rolled barrels of salted eels.

  As they crossed the bridge, watermills clacked. Row by row and under the bridge’s arches the watermills supplied something greater than muscle power. Down there people waited their turn to grind grain, while harlots tugged at the sleeves of the better-dressed men.

  The sounds of craft workers dwindled. Here lived the King and his court and the High Priest and his prelates and the divines of Tulun. The White Tower was a great pile of stones, built when the knights of Albion had first carved a kingdom from the Cragsmen. An apple orchard and vineyard stood next to a coursing track. Gabled houses with tiled roofs rose up. Vying with royalty were many churches, their fronts chiseled with scenes from Holy Writ. Bells clanged as monks called the roster of their parish saints.

  Gavin and Hugo had stabled the horses in the lower town. They had gone to the baths and then to clothiers for suitable attire. On the city wall, Gavin viewed the tents across the Fangohr. The tournament needed large fields for knights and their steeds and room for cheering crowds. Nowhere in Banfrey could this be found. So across the river in Cenwulf Meadow rose colorful tents. King Egbert’s red silk tent dominated them. Gavin noticed carpenters sawing and hammering. The tournament hadn’t yet begun in earnest.

  Before seeing the King, Swan wished to speak with the Sisters of Hosar. She’d said, “Once I convince them they will gain me admittance to the King.”

  Gavin had his doubts. But then he had worked out another plan for her that included the gentlemen adventurers of Albion who had sailed with him across the Sea of Nuada. They had parted company in Glendover Port, promising to meet again at the tournament.

  First, he escorted Swan to the red brick plaza where pilgrims swarmed. He shouldered through, begging pardon, smiling and nodding and dragging Swan after him.

  In front of the shrine, a divine in a white robe stood on a platform and blessed the kneeling pilgrims.

  Gavin shouldered his way to the roped-off area. Stern-eyed divines armed with staffs blocked the entrance. Only the pure were allowed within. Each applicant knelt and whispered to an old Wisdom sitting on a stool, putting forth their pleas of purity. It was well known that a man of war and bloodshed never fit that description. Pilgrims thus gave Gavin a hostile glance.

  “Don’t you harm the sisters,” warned a hooded man, by the thickness of his wrists a blacksmith.

  Gavin went to one knee and bowed his head.

  Swan knelt beside him, and she took one of the old withered hands and placed it over her heart. She gazed into the Wisdom’s eyes, and she whispered into the woman’s ear.

  To the amazement of those watching, the old divine turned sharply and motioned one of the staff-wielders. Swan rose and followed the staff-wielder into the shrine.

  “You have done your duty,” the Wisdom told Gavin. “May Hosar bless you as go your way.”

  The throng of kneeling pilgrims smiled. The blacksmith squeezed his arm. Gavin smiled back and worked his way out of the crowd.

  “You can’t leave her in there,” Hugo said.

  “I’m not,” Gavin said. “Or you’re not. Wait for her.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Gavin pressed coins into Hugo’s hands and told him to rent a room. “Her way to the King is doubtful. But my way follows Muscovite Rules.”

  “You mustn’t tarnish Swan’s purity,” Hugo said.

  Gavin gave his squire a single glance and then went on his way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gavin knew this game. He had practiced many variations of it. He returned to the clothiers and bought red silk hose and felt shoes buckled with gold. He purchased a green silk bliaut, a tunic he pulled over his head like a shirt, and he bought a gorgeous mantle lined with marten. He finished his shopping with a silver chain and green pedant. When he viewed himself before a mirror, he believed himself a perfect peacock.

  He preferred leather and woolens, but to beat lords at their favorite pastime one had to out-chivalry the chivalrous. He jingled his coin pouch. The rest must go to the purchase of a fine stallion, jousting saddle, lances, golden spurs and great helmet.

  He hired a herald who shouted his name as he rode through the streets of the lower town. He boarded a ferry and crossed to Cenwulf Meadow.

  It was the brisk season of tournaments. From Accession Day to the Feast of Saint When the nobility of the continent and Albion practiced this knightly passion. In Albion, France and the Low Countries, Saxony and the northern parts of Bavaria, the younger sons of barons, earls, dukes and chevaliers flocked to the jousting fields. To win fame inflamed them. To impress a young lady and win her hand, and inherit her lands and gain station, ah, that made their young hearts pound. Some were like Gavin, gaining wealth through game. Some wished to heighten a wedding or seal a pact by proclaiming a tourney and giving away great prizes.

  To host a tournament took vast sums. Usually t
hey were held at the great courts, the semi-annual meetings of a king or baron with his vassals. France and the Low Countries were the heart of courtly love and tournaments. But lately the knights of Albion had vied for that honor. Gavin had plied the tournament circuit many a year there. That was why he had come to Erin, to milk new prey. The law of the tourney was similar to that of the battlefield. A winner captured the loser, gaining his costly warhorse, armor, weapons and person. To gain them back the loser must pay ransom. It was a deadly game, a chancy occupation. Broken collar and arm bones vied in frequency with teeth spat out a jouster’s mouth.

  It looked as if an army encamped upon Cenwulf Meadow. Besides the nobles came horse dealers, armorers, haberdashers, usurers, mimes, storytellers, actors, acrobats, harlots and goliards. The last were churchmen who had fled their training and turned themselves into singers, belting out bawdy songs for their meals. It was a swarming crowd, with carpenters still sawing and hammering upon the lodges.

  Gavin followed the sound of clapping and the playing of viols. Lords and ladies danced upon the greensward. They didn’t dance as commoners. Such grabbed a girl’s hands and twirled in a circle. These nobles danced the chaplet.

  Gavin moved to the edge of the crowd as the dance ended with each knight kissing his lady partner on the cheek.

  At a shout from a white-haired baron, the viol players struck up a livelier tune, a toruant.

  “It’s Sir Gavin!” cried a knight. “Look, sirs, the bold rascal has arrived.”

  The gentlemen adventurers who had crossed the Sea of Nuada with him rushed to welcome him. It interrupted the dance as he had hoped it might.